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Always kissed her on the cheek and said he loved her.

Always said dinner smelled good.

But I’m not my father.

I’m not a husband.

I’m not a family man, and I don’t want Genesis to view me as one.

She doesn’t need that attachment to me.

My father loved my mother, and her, him, but he put her in dangerous situations.

She handled them well, but ultimately, they killed her.

I shut my mouth, holding myself back from saying those three words. As soon as I step inside, the aroma of garlic and olive oil drifts up my nostrils. My mouth waters, and I sniff the air.

Genesis is in the kitchen, parked in front of the stove, stirring something inside a pot. She’s dressed in black pants that look like they belong to a businessman about to make a deal and a tight, almost-spandex-looking tank.

I sniff again, picking up the smell of fresh tomatoes. An open bottle of red wine is on the counter with two glasses beside it. One of them is half full and the other is empty.

She looks over at me with a friendly smile, holding up the spoon half covered with tomato sauce. “Oh, hey.” A hint of shyness is in her voice. “I wasn’t sure if you’d come home or not …” She pauses, chewing on her bottom lip, and her shoulders droop. “Seriously, is it so hard to text back? Or, hell, you don’t even have to physically text. Just tell Siri to confirm you’ll be home for dinner.”

I unbuckle my suit jacket, strolling deeper into the kitchen. “What if I saymysurprise to you was showing up to see yours?”

“Nope.” She waves the spoon in the air, and I’m surprised sauce doesn’t fall from it. “I’m able to smell bullshit from a mile away.”

I step closer. “And I’m able to smell my mother’s spaghetti sauce from a mile away.” I sniff again, walking straight to the stove to look in the pot.

She sets the spoon down and backs away from the stove.

Not only does the sauce smell like my mother’s recipe, but it also looks like it.

A thickness forms in my throat as I stare down at it, remembering all the time my mother spent in the kitchen, making this very sauce.

Plenty of people asked for the recipe for this sauce, but she was particular about who she shared it with. It’s nearly identical with chunks of tomato, mushrooms, carrots, pancetta, and sausage.

Genesis stands a few inches away, awkwardly moving from one foot to the other when my gaze snaps to her.

The sauce was a family favorite, but since it took four hours to make, my mother would only make it on Sundays.

Millions of memories rush through my mind.

Good ones.

Bad ones.

Sad ones.

I’m reminded that I’ll never share a meal with my family again.

There was a point when I accepted I’d never have my mother’s sauce again since I didn’t know anyone alive who knew how to make it. I thought her recipes had gone to the grave with her.

Damien and I aren’t the cooking type.

“How did you …” I ask, staring at her, stunned. My words trail off, like I’m unable to finish the question.

Her cheeks redden. “Your mother taught Melissa and me. It’s my first time making it by myself, so I can’t promise it’ll taste as good as hers since she was a sauce genius, but I tried my best.” Her tone is a fusion of hope and worry.